Little boy lost
by Beautiful space
Summary: " Father, father, where are you going, oh do not walk so fast, speak father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost, the night was dark no father was there, the child was wet with dew, the mire was deep, & the child did weep, and away the vapour flew." Just who was Tom Marvolo Riddle before he became Lord Voldemort?


A/N: I know I should be doing my other projects, but I couldn't resist...

This is a character study of Voldemort before he became the Dark Lord.

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**_Little Boy Lost_**

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**Father, father, where are you going?**

Tom Marvolo Riddle lay asleep in his bed, his nose twitching every now and then. It was the eve of New Year, his birthday, and no one had given him a present. The day was the same as usual, and every one of his wasted, innocent beliefs of his father coming back to retrieve him from the orphanage had gone. He was eight years old, now, a big boy. He knew his father wouldn't come for him. But it didn't stop him from dreaming.

**Oh do not walk so fast!**

Tom Riddle dreamed of a retreating figure, of a man whose back was always to him. The only thing he could pick out from the mysterious figure was of a man with hair identical to his- dark and curly, sitting neatly and handsomely atop his head- and a long, tailored coat that flapped within the breeze. He was running from him, running from his own flesh and blood. Tom crumpled to his knees and wailed, his small throat letting his screams rip from his throat as he thought bitterly of Amy Benson's annual presents she always got from her parents. He felt isolated and utterly alone. Cold sweat trickled down his back and he did nothing to wipe it away. He didn't know whether the orphanage was dream or reality. Both hells- this one and the dilapidated place he called home- were equally as bad. The children in the neighbouring dormitories constantly stole things from him, continually made fun out of the fact that he had no parents although they had none, either. He tried to believe in the Holy Father, he truly did, but he always felt as though he were abandoning him, leaving him to the torment of the wretched place he slept in. He hoped against hope that his peers would stop bullying him.  
His foolish naivety betrayed him.

**Speak, father, speak to your little boy**

Tom had enough. They had stolen his favourite book, Pride and Prejudice. He had tolerated them before, but he would not stand for it. They would keep stealing and stealing, depriving him of his things until he had nothing, nothing until he was a wasted shell of the boy he had once been, just like those loony drunks who stumbled down the alleyway, eyes wide with grief and hazy stupidity. Many of the care workers in the orphanage often felt pity overcome them whenever they heard the drunks hollering for lost spouses and beloved family, but Tom felt nothing for them. Most were soldiers from the First World War. In his opinion, if they wanted to keep their family safe, they should have hidden, protected themselves. He paused, tried to think of his father and what he would say to him. He could think of nothing, but his thoughts about the First World War remained.  
He looked at Billy Stubbs' rabbit and thought of how pretty it would look if were hung, dead, from the rafters.

**Or else I shall be lost**

Tom Riddle had recently turned ten, but there was no joy for him, as usual. But he felt no melancholy pity for himself either. His every breath staggered within his lungs, pain striking his chest with every expansion of those precious organs. His heart hammered within his rib cage, threatening to burst. He felt fear overcome him, his body becoming deprived of oxygen as he used up more and more of it, though his every breath was becoming shallower and shallower with each intake of air. He heard a bomb go off, somewhere in the west and flinched, but forced himself to keep going. His life depended on the tiny shelter, hidden beneath the willow tree under the orphanage. His bulky air mask did nothing to filter the air that filled his nostrils, and the toxic chemicals watered his eyes.  
Just a little more...  
He reached the bomb shelter, but the door slammed shut. He was too late. Everyone was in there, and Mrs Cole was leaving him to die. Bitter tears fell from his eyes and he felt a sob constrict his throat. He leaned against the corrugated tin door and allowed his back to slide down the door that had been open before. A plane circled above him and dropped an object onto the manor behind the orphanage. It was close- around 50 yards or so- and Tom had a chance to run. But he was paralyzed with fear, his muscles refusing to obey his mind. His instincts never kicked in. His body lay like a rag doll, exposed to danger. He was ready for his end to meet him. Perhaps then, Mrs Cole may feel guilt for what she had done. Perhaps she may shower him with kisses and hugs and beg to be forgiven. But no matter how much he tried to imagine Mrs Cole grovelling at his feet, he kept thinking of a man who looked identical to him in every way, bar his age, pleading for his forgiveness. His hope was lost, lost like he was. Left in a world where he didn't fit in.  
The bomb hit.  
The ground shook.  
A piece of unforgiving shrapnel lodged itself into his side.  
His faith in Muggles shattered.

**The night was dark, no father was there**

Tom hobbled around in crutches, now, although when he had seen the Doctor's, they had claimed that the Holy Spirit had performed miracles. His wounds had healed so well that there was no scar left, but the pain still lingered, forcing him to spend three more weeks in pathetically weak crutches made out of the same willow tree that swept majestically along the lawn in the back garden. Tom watched the children outside enviously, every innocent trust in his elders shattered. He looked down at the trophies he had stolen- a yo-yo, a silver thimble, an old and tarnished harmonica and Amy Benson's favourite doll. He looked outside and it was dark. No surprise hit him. The pain in his side stayed, but he could ignore it. With an excruciating pain in his left waist, he stood up and looked out into the night, hoping against hope that his father would look up at him, an overjoyed look painted handsomely on his fine face.  
No one there.  
He looked down at his trophies yet again and felt a hollow pain reverberate within him. Those trinkets he had stolen meant nothing. And yet, he put them away carefully and diligently within a cardboard box.  
He paused, trying to feel that thing that Mrs Cole called regret, but nothing came.

**The child was wet with dew**

His crutches had been abandoned at the cold shore. His hair was saturated with dew that had condensed upon the seaweed. He held a sharp blade within his left hand, his eyes wide and dead. He stared at Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, their mirroring eyes glaring straight at him. They obviously thought that he wouldn't dare try it. The provoked him into doing it, it was their fault. They called his father a slandering plague who would never retrieve Tom from the orphanage. Tom felt fire course within his veins.  
He'll show them.  
He'll prove them wrong.  
A flash of silver and two screams rang out within the cave. Tom felt glee overtake him, delight in causing pain. He didn't care that what he was doing was wrong. He was superior. He was better than them. And one day, they would come grovelling at him.  
His father was forgotten.

**The mire was deep and the child did weep**

Tom had returned from the bog, his eyes stinging with tears from the revolting stench. He went straight to the bath tub, ignoring Mrs Cole's call for dinner. He didn't bother eating. What they had for food looked like and tasted like dish water. He wouldn't be surprised if it actually was the filthy remnants of water from the washed dishes. He scrubbed himself with the rag and emerged from the steel bathtub, freezing cold and wet. He walked back to his dormitory and Mrs Cole returned, claiming that a man named Dunderdore wanted to visit him. He didn't believe that was his name; there had been rumours that Mrs Cole was going to retire soon, so he supposed that it would make sense that she had been going deaf. He felt no pity for her and merely turned away, looking at the window. He stared at his reflection, an aristocratic face set with onyx eyes and handsome, chiselled features. His face was framed by dark locks of curly hair that was impossible to tell whether it were black or dark brown.  
He knew his father looked the same.

**And away the vapour flew**

Tom stared at the man who was supposed to love him, take him in, care for him. His grandparents' corpses lie in the parlour, untouched tea gone stale and cold, warm vapour long gone. He felt hurt reverberate within him before he steadied himself. He was Lord Voldemort, the most powerful pupil in the whole of Hogwarts! He will not lose his composure! But, as he stared at his father's terrified face, he stopped. He felt tears; his first true, genuine tears; trail down his cheeks.  
Was this sadness?  
Was this heartbreak?  
Tom's lower lip trembled.

" You left me. You left my mother!" Tom accused.

"Merope..." His father, Tom Senior, whispered. Tom the younger felt his foreign sadness turn into a more familiar emotion- anger.

"You left me!" He repeated, his hurt whisper turned into a hateful snarl. Tom the elder's face contorted in disgust.

"That Gaunt girl enchanted me," Tom senior barked. He looked at his son in a new light. "And you are her offspring."

"Of course I am your son-"Tom interrupted, but his father cut him off.

"Get out. You are no son of mine." He spat.  
Tom's childhood dreams shattered and his heart broke. He felt as though he had been torn apart. He tried in vain to compose himself, but his hope was lost as tears spilled over his cheeks. His father's firm set face did not once waver. Neither fatherly love nor compassion was shown on his face.

"If you hate me," Tom finally spoke. "Then I should hate you too." His arm trembled as he levelled his long; yew wand between his father's eyes. Terror sparked in his father's onyx eyes- the same eyes that was set in Tom's own face- but for once, Tom did not revel in the fear. He summoned as much hatred as he could before he said the next two words that ultimately decided his father's end.

"Avada Kedavra."

**_~Finis~_**

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A/N: The bold are lines from the poem 'Little Boy Lost'.

Please review!


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